


The Stuff of Nightmares

by merentha13



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:30:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merentha13/pseuds/merentha13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A separation, a premonition and a rescue...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stuff of Nightmares

[](http://merentha13.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/295/40306) [](http://merentha13.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/295/40496)

 

He swam frantically against the current of this latest nightmare, struggling against the waves of fear to wake. Cold sweat soaked his sheets. He took a deep breath to slow his racing heart. It was the same dream, three nights running - ever since Bodie had agreed to be the bait in Cowley’s ploy to get Tarkoff’s accomplices. Cowley wanted all the men that had been involved in the badger-plot to blackmail Sir Charles. A bullet through the thigh effectively kept him from his partner's side. He wasn’t the one watching Bodie’s back and Bodie was out there, in danger and alone.

He rested an arm across his forehead and closed his eyes. Images from the dream were waiting for him: the two of them running through water, the sound of bullets hitting the pavement just behind them, Bodie crying out, and then falling...

“Bloody hell!”

Doyle sat up and threw back the duvet. He winced slightly as he jostled his sore leg. The alarm clock read five-fifteen. Acknowledging that sleep wasn’t going to return, he got stiffly out of bed and dressed. He needed to move. He put on jeans, a jumper and his trainers. He eyed the cane leaning against the bedside locker and the gun hanging from the bed post. His instincts on edge, he collected both and headed out of his flat. 

##

Two hours and as many miles later, he sat on a park bench, sipping a coffee and unwrapping a bacon sarnie. Doyle’s eyes narrowed as he watched a slim figure move towards him. 

“Mr Doyle?”

“Sammy.”

The young man shifted uneasily from foot to foot under Doyle’s scrutiny.

Doyle set his breakfast down and nodded to the empty space on the bench next to him. Sammy sat down.

“You usin’ again, Sammy?” Doyle reached for the lad’s arm and pushed up a dirty sleeve.

“No, sir. ’M clean.”

Doyle dropped the skinny arm and cuffed Sammy lightly on the side of the head. “Keep it that way, eh?”

Sammy returned a weak smile and nodded, eyes glued to Doyle’s breakfast. 

Doyle studied the snitch, wishing that he didn’t remember so clearly the feelings that went hand in hand with the look on the young man’s face – the desperate hunger, the hopelessness.

“You hungry?” 

Receiving no answer, Doyle pushed the bacon sarnie and what remained of the coffee into Sammy’s hands. “You go ahead and get your gear around that. Then we’ll talk.”

It didn’t take long. The meal disappeared quickly. 

Doyle laughed. “Just like Bodie.”

Sammy looked up, puzzled. “You know about Bodie?” 

The laughter ran out of Doyle. He fixed Sammy with fierce glare. “What about Bodie?”

“I saw a couple men takin’ your Mr Bodie down into the sewers below Chelsea Bridge. Didn’t look like he wanted to go.” His eyes left Doyle’s and he shifted uncomfortably. “Thought it might be worth something to you...to know.”

Doyle sucked in a deep breath. “When did this all happen?”

“Couple hours ago.” He looked down at his feet. “I was goin’ to leave a note at the drop, but then I saw you here.”

Doyle got up quickly, ignoring the protest from his leg. He handed Sammy a tenner. “Thanks, mate. Keep yourself out of trouble, yeah?” Sammy shook his head, mumbled his thanks and ducked under the hand that tried to ruffle his hair. 

 

Doyle made his way to a phone box and called CI5. He wished he had his R/T but he was officially on sick leave and not supposed to be working. He recognised Julie’s voice as she answered his call. 

“Let me speak with Murphy, luv.”

“I’m sorry, Ray. Murphy’s out.”

“How about Jax, then?”

“Not here either.”

“Where the hell is everyone?”

“There’s a Code- 7 call out, Ray. I can’t give you any more information.”

“Is it Bodie?”

“Ray, you know–"

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. All right, Julie. I’ll call in later.”

He hung up the phone with a heavy sigh. “What have you got yourself into this time, sunshine?” But he knew. Cowley’s plan had gone wrong. Bodie was in trouble. It was what the dreams had been trying to tell him. The wound in his thigh had kept him from being the one to watch Bodie’s back. Well, no longer. Leaning on his cane, he limped towards Chelsea Bridge.

## 

Water seeping in from overhead ran in rivulets down the slimy brick walls and echoed eerily through the dark tunnel. The dampness chilled him to the bone, causing the ache in his healing thigh to deepen. He hated being in the sewers. The smell, the cold, the wet, the darkness - all tore at the curtain he’d hung between himself and the past. Memories of who and what he had been returned for the second time that morning. Ghosts of the young tearaway hustling, tripping and hiding in places like this one still haunted him in the deepest dark of night when sleep wouldn’t come. He felt, again, a sorrowful pity for the idealistic Met policeman who’d spent hours in a heart-rending search for a missing child through these endless, twisting warrens. And then, working undercover with the drugs squad, he’d chased villains through these tunnels only to find himself left bruised and broken by his fellow officers, his own blood mingling with the filth flowing sluggishly around him. He wiped angrily at the moisture that dripped from the ceiling into his hair and then ran down the back of his neck. He shivered. 

A scrabbling off to his left reminded him that he wasn’t alone. Red eyes stared up at him. Rats. His torch must have flushed them from their nests. God, he hated it down here. He muttered a string of oaths that even Bodie would have found impressive for their inventiveness. Bodie. _Where are you, mate?_. 

He knew he should wait for Murphy and the rest of the squad - he’d left a message with Control - but he’d heard voices down the branch near where he’d entered the sewers. Bodie’s voice, sounding rough. He couldn’t delay any longer. He moved gingerly forward through the detritus. He didn’t want to fall into the wetness. Even with the help of his cane, his soaked trainers slid dangerously on the silt covered ground. He followed the sound of the voices, trying to ignore the eyes watching him, concentrating on remaining undetected by larger prey. The words he heard were punctuated with the sound of flesh hitting flesh. He could hear Bodie taunting his captors. _True to form, that_ , he smiled bitterly. In the mockery, he recognised Bodie’s last attempt to force the Russian’s hand and maybe create an opening to get away, to save himself. Doyle’s gut twisted with the realisation that Bodie thought he was on his own, that no one was coming to his rescue. Doyle knew that if the goading didn’t provide Bodie with a chance of escape, Bodie would up the stakes until the Russians killed him. The man would not allow himself to be taken out of Britain. The time to move was now. 

Listening carefully, he could hear two distinct Russia voices. With surprise on his side, he should be able to take them both. If Bodie caught on and could back him up, there’d be no problem at all. Drawing his gun out of the holster under his left arm, he cautiously slid forward, back pressed against the wall until he could see the Russians. Their attention was focused on Bodie, slumped on the floor at their feet. 

Doyle could hear Bodie continue his jeering. He took aim when one of the Russians began to raise his weapon. Doyle threw his cane. It clattered off the wall to the left of the men, drawing their attention away from Bodie. Doyle’s first shot took the gun from the Russian’s hand. He shouted, “Bodie!” and followed it up with another that caught the same man in the chest. Spinning to deal with the second man he found Bodie grappling with the angry Russian. Doyle stepped in and dealt the Russian a blow to the back of the head with the butt of his Browning. The man collapsed on top of Bodie and Doyle wrenched him away.

Bodie, flat on his back on the wet floor and breathing heavily, arched an eyebrow at Doyle and panted “What the fuck took you so long?”

Doyle smiled in relief at the belligerence and offered him a hand up. Remembering the fear of his nightmares, and ignoring the water and mud that covered the man, he pulled Bodie into a tight hug to reassure himself that his partner was all right. 

“Oi, Doyle, what’s this in aid of?” But Bodie knew. Doyle felt his chin raised and his mouth taken in a deep and reassuring kiss. He felt Bodie’s hands running up and down his back and was grateful that Bodie ignored the tremors that threatened to shake them both apart.

“It’s ok, Ray. We’re both ok.” Bodie rested his forehead against his partner’s and tightened his hold. Doyle closed his eyes and relaxed in the embrace. The nightmares were over, for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Weekly Obbo Challenge at Tea & Swiss Roll. Prompts: oath, curtain, bait, arch & picture prompts


End file.
